A Christmas Miracle
by Can'tStopImagining
Summary: Three more Christmases. (Sequel to 'Five Christmases'). Patsy/Delia.


**A/N: **I apparently spend too much time thinking about Christmas. This is a sequel to Five Christmases, which I wrote right at the start of my journey into this fandom. Admittedly, looking back at that story, a lot of it isn't quite canon or in character (we had only had one Delia episode at the time haha), but I'm still quite fond of the backstory and headcanon in it, so I thought I'd continue it, from the Christmas of 1960 (end of series four), onwards.

* * *

**one.**

With trembling fingers, Patsy finished tying the string on the package that she had spent the last half hour fussing over, and quietly set it aside. Christmas had snuck up on her, as it often did, and it felt even more unwelcome than it had in previous years, despite the warm, festive atmosphere Nonnatus House provided. Even Trixie had strung some tinsel along her dressing table, and found a sprig of mistletoe to hang from the doorway. Patsy had attempted to join in the decorating of the Christmas tree, but surely everybody could tell the smile that was painted on her face wasn't quite genuine, and didn't reach her eyes.

In every corner of Poplar, she heard fragments of Delia, saw the ghost of her lurking in the market place, and at the fish and chip shop, and in every cafe or dance hall they had ever been to.

Delia was in Wales. Delia didn't reply to her letters, or have a telephone for Patsy to call, or even remember who she was. Each and every time she crossed Patsy's mind – there was scarcely a moment where she wasn't there, even if she was joined by thoughts of labour, or diagnosis, or what to have for supper – she was reminded that Delia would not be thinking of her. Delia could not be thinking of Patsy, because she no longer knew her.

Still, when she had spotted the perfect present for her, she had bought it, even if she knew she would never give it.

"An admirer?" Trixie breezed in, dragging Patsy out of her thoughts. When the redhead cast a blank look back, she gestured for the present, sitting on her night stand.

"Oh... no," she glanced at it, and away again, "it's..."

She trailed off, but there was something in the way Trixie's expression softened that told her she probably knew without it needing to be said.

* * *

The present stayed on the side, neatly wrapped but with nowhere to go, for three months. One evening Barbara came bounding in, all excitable about something or other and knocked it off the shelf. Her apology was more than sincere, her face tomato red as she hurriedly tried to pick the pieces up, but it fell on deaf ears.

Nobody could quite understand why Patsy Mount – who never cried over anything – broke down in tears over a broken coffee mug.

* * *

**two.**

The first snow was starting to settle, dusting the ground like a sprinkling of caster sugar on a victoria sponge. It danced across the tip of her nose, gathering on her eyelashes, as Patsy smoked her third cigarette in a row, her fingers shaky, her pulse erratic.

The train station was bustling with activity; businessmen hurrying across platforms, mothers with bundles of presents to get home, families greeting long awaited relatives. With every fresh gust of visitors, Patsy became more and more unsettled, twitching, trying to make out individuals in the sea of faces. She dropped her cigarette, stamped it out, and reluctantly stopped herself from lighting another. Pressing her back against the wall, Patsy closed her eyes, willing herself to stop panicking. The letter had arrived twelve days ago, and she had felt like she might combust ever since. It was taking every bit of self restraint not to return to pacing up and down the station, despite the fact her watch told her there was still another two minutes until the train would pull in. She was usually so good at keeping herself together, it was frustrating that she couldn't do it now.

Then again, a year was a long time to wait, she supposed.

"Patsy?"

The voice was hesitant, but so achingly familiar that her eyes flew open at once.

"Oh, it is you," Delia beamed, now a little more herself. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair without its prim, neatness that Patsy had come to associate with her. It blew about her shoulders, speckled already with steadily melting flecks of snow.

Patsy longed to draw her close, to bury her face in her hair, to cling to her and never let go of her for fear she might disappear again.

At the same time, she was too frightened to touch her.

"Delia," she whispered, before clearing her throat, "let me take your luggage? I hope the journey wasn't too arduous."

She scooped up her suitcase, and begun to walk before she even got a response, and feeling Delia's fingers close around hers, willing her to stop, made her heart leap into her throat.

"Can I... just look at you a moment," Delia asked. She held Patsy's hand tightly, laying her fingers on top of their joined hands in a movement so familiar that Patsy found herself blinking back tears before she could register what was happening.

"I thought you'd... when I got your letter... I didn't know if you'd..."

"I remember," Delia said, slowly, running her fingers over Patsy's cheek bone, brushing away a tear before it could make its way down, "I remember it all. And I couldn't wait a moment longer to be back with you."

* * *

**three.**

Patsy practically ran down the front steps, checking her watch as she did so, and cursing when she saw the time. A few minutes past midnight. It was officially Christmas Day, and she had yet to make it home. Any other year, and she'd have been glad of the distraction. She had always been the first to volunteer to work the holiday shifts, grateful to have something to do. Babies didn't stop being born just because it was Christmas. So long as she could fit in a dance, some hijinks with old friends, a couple of glasses of wine... she was more than happy to avoid the traditional activities of the festive period. This time, however, was quite a different story.

The cobbled streets were icy and she had to step carefully as not to meet the same fate Sister Winifred had earlier in the week, slipping down the street, rushing back from the shops; she still had the bump on the head to show for it. Under the streetlights, the pavements glistened, the streets bathed in an almost comforting silence, bar her own footsteps. For the first time in many years, Patsy felt almost giddy about the prospect of Christmas morning.

Their front door was distinguishable from the rest of the street only because of the humongous wreath that hung on it, tied together with a large ribbon. The sight of it, every morning as she closed the door behind her, had made Patsy chuckle, but with adoration at the pure absurdity of it. Now, she positively beamed at it, slipping her key into the lock and swinging the door open as quietly as she could. She was sure Delia would be tucked up in bed, and didn't wish to wake her.

Patsy crept inside, closing the door behind her, and flicking the hall light on. She discarded her coat neatly on its hook, and was tip-toeing towards the sitting room when she realised that the door was ajar, and the light on.

"Delia?"

She moved towards the figure who was curled up in a chair, a mountain of wrapped gifts to one side of her, a roll of sticky tape still clutched in her hand, and she couldn't help but smile down at her. She eased the roll of tape from Delia's grip, and placed it on the side table, giving her shoulder a gentle shake.

Delia awoke, her eyes fluttering open, and for a second, she didn't appear to know where she was. When she saw Patsy, a warm smile broke out on her somewhat sleepy face.

"Welcome home," she whispered, her words coming out slightly fuzzy.

"And Merry Christmas," Patsy said, gently, dipping to kiss Delia's forehead, where her fringe was ruffled from sleeping, "let's go to bed."


End file.
